


If You Were Counting (Don't Miss the Third One)

by orange_8_hands



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gangs, Gen, Leaning on the Fourth Wall, M/M, Revenge, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:02:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_8_hands/pseuds/orange_8_hands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fifth time they hold a conversation, it's over two dead bodies. (AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Were Counting (Don't Miss the Third One)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [there's something dark inside of me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/431661) by [gladdecease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gladdecease/pseuds/gladdecease). 



> In case you're wondering, the writing style was inspired by gladdecease's awesome story. (The stories themselves have nothing to do with each other.) The story itself was very, very faintly inspired by Sons of Anarchy. I got the specifics on Derek's car from [this](http://www.imcdb.org/vehicle_404849-Chevrolet-Camaro-2010.html). The cop stuff is as related to reality as the show's idea of telling people's lies based on heartbeats is. And I'm honestly not sure if this makes sense without my massive amounts of head-canon, in which case, sorry.

  
The fifth time they hold a conversation since Stiles came back to town, it's over two dead bodies.  
  
(The first time is the one you want to hear about, calloused hands catching on cloth and mouths licking skin and a hand between wall and head while they rut up against each other, harsh grunts and low moans from the one, a running commentary from the other, _fuck, harder, come on just - like that come on come on fuck_ , but neither ever mentions the first time they met. Sometimes, maybe, they think about it, imagine different faces, different voices than the one they're fucking, maybe feeling guilty for it, sometimes they use the memory to help jerk one out in the morning, quick burst of pleasure, but that's it, that's the end of that part of the story. This isn't a fucking love story, and even if it was, it wouldn't be _them_. Scott and Allison are star-crossed lovers in love; they just fucked, once, against a wall, maybe five words exchanged first, eight years after the last time they saw each other.)   
  
The conversation is more one-sided than an engaging dialogue, but then that's true for all the other times too. It's actually pretty simple too, no tangents at all, and it goes like this, mouth along now, you know this one:  
  
"Derek Hale, you're under arrest for the murder of Peter Hale and Special Agent Kate Argent. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights I have just read to you?"   
  
"Yes," Derek says, and that's the fifth time.

 

                                          --------------------------

You don't really care about the steps of the handcuffed suspect being processed, there's a reason Law and Order always skips ahead, so we'll just follow along to two or so hours later, no need to be exact, and find one Sheriff Stiles Stilinski (it's a family thing, see) watching one Derek Hale (it's also a family thing, see) through a one-way mirror. Derek looks as Derek always looks, face statue still and skirting the edge of anger into violently pissed. Stiles looks at him just a beat too long, but the only one who notices is you, dear reader, and that's because at your heart you're a _romantic_ , and believe those two knucklehead kids can work themselves out. He's just misunderstood, that's what you say, isn't it? And you laugh when people defend _Edward Cullens_.

Stiles offers a cup of water to Derek, who takes it but doesn't sip, doesn't even really move it around in his hands. Derek isn't going to ask for a lawyer, and Stiles know this. Stiles really only has motive and an appearance at the crime scene tying Derek to these murders, and Derek knows it. They know a lot, actually, just a fest of mutual knowledge. Mostly they're right, too.

Stiles starts right away because it's not like the silent treatment is going to have Derek running his mouth to confess; the best shot Stiles has of getting any information out of him is to annoy him into talking. "We have proof that Kate Argent tied someone up in a basement and tortured them with a cattle prod."

Derek's jaw tightens minutely, but he doesn't say anything. (This is Derek's theme song.)

"We also have proof tying her to the fire six years ago. And to planting some of the evidence that lead to your arrest the week after. And to supplying some of the guns to the Beta Club used in the shoot-out a month ago. Plus I'm pretty sure she's the one that took a tire iron to your sister's car." Stiles drums his fingers against the table, mouth pursed as if calculating to make sure he covered everything. "I'm comfortable saying there's a lot more but those seem to be the relevant highlights. You want to add anything?"

Derek just looks at him.

"Don't worry; everyone agrees that's plenty on the motive list. Definitely a good reason to go after Kate with a knife." Stiles shrugs. "The list isn't as long for your Uncle, so we aren't sure why you went the more vicious root of burning the man alive, but a dead sister and fucking up your father's club's name seem to be good enough for the DA."

They sit in silence for a while. It's not companionable, but if it makes you feel better, you can pretend it is.

"You can tell me what you were doing at the scene of the crime if it wasn't murdering them," Stiles finally offers. "I'm not saying I'll believe you, or anything, but if you want to start launching a defense feel free to practice on me. I could always use something to fill in this pesky report."

Derek continues to glare. Stiles would almost be impressed with the level of hate he can keep on his face at one time if he hadn't seen worse. From Derek, even. 

"Or we could just-"

The door opens before he can finish the setence ( _-sit here quietly_ , which ha) and his Deputy sticks his head in. He gives a slight jerk and Stiles nods, waits for him to close the door again before turning back to Derek. "That's probably one of my guys telling me about the murder weapon they found. Or maybe about the cell you dumped. Something that's gonna make a very pretty bow I can put on this case when I hand it over to the DA. So if you want her to go light, maybe stay away from things like the death penalty, feel free to confess. If not I'm gonna tell her to throw the book at you." 

He waits another minute, then nods and gets up. "Hope you liked prison life, Hale. You're about to go back to it."

                                                                                  --------------------------

"Nothing." He repeats. It's not a question, but Lydia rolls her eyes and mutters, "What did I just say?"

"Right," Stiles says quickly. "Nothing. No evidence at all. Nada. Zip. Zilch."

"I can repeat it more ways than you can, so if we could move on." Lydia taps her nail against the folder in her hand.  Stiles isn't sure if she actually wrote up her preliminary report already or if the folder was for a different case. "There's no knife, no lighter, and no lighter fluid container. We're expanding the search perimeters but I have a feeling its still going to be a no. There are no footprints in Derek Hale's size boots near either of the bodies. There's evidence of three cars driving to and from the scene, but no way to know when exactly they were left there. We have the tire treads being analyzed but none of them are very clear so be amazed when I tell you the make and model of the car, of which I'm comfortable telling you privately now isn't going to match the last known car Derek was driving, unless that isn't a 2010 Chevy Camaro."

Lydia narrows her eyes, taps one painted nail again. "Honestly we have absolutely nothing tying Derek Hale to the scene of the crime except that he was found there. The scene and body positions support the theory they killed each other. Autopsy will start on them soon but unless one of them has Derek Hale's skin under their fingernails, or have radically different times of death, which I very much doubt, you aren't going to get him with what we have. His attorney will find plenty of other people wanting to kill those two, and can make a very reasonable case that they killed each other."

Stiles cups the back of his head. "Great. So I get to tell the Mayor her sister-in-law was killed while she was trying to kill Peter Hale. That's going to go over wonderfully. The FBI will be a breeze, after that."

"Arrest him all you want," Lydia says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Just don't expect a guilty verdict when he finally goes to court. He's beautiful enough a jury of his peers is going to be perfectly happy to let him off. Add in his tragic back story and he'll be on a book tour in two years if he wants."

"Fuck."

"Yes. So do you want to hold him the full twenty-four hours, or do you want me to get one of the deputies to take him home?"  

                                                                                  --------------------------

It used to be, when Stiles didn't want to think he visited Scott, which never actually made sense because Scott was the reason for most of the fucked up shit in his life. Scott, and his job. (You may think he hates both, just a little, in the quiet corner in the back of his mind. You aren't completely wrong.) Now those facts are definitely true, but this is another step he has to take, and might as well do it now, since he has no leads and Derek Hale has finally been let go.

He finds Scott at the edge of town, building Mrs. Kitchkin's picket fence. He's strangely unselfconscious about the black bands covering up his old gang tattoos, blacked out when he left the club, so he's shirtless in the sunny morning, sweating slightly from moving heavy wood for the last hour. Stiles waits until Scott is done screwing the latch onto the wooden gate before getting out of his car and joining him the middle of Mrs. Kitchkin's yard.

Scott was never as stupid as everybody thought he was. Easily lead, and extremely tunnel vision focused, yes, even he would have to agree with that, but not as stupid. So he didn't talk about what lead them to this, and he didn't ask if everything was okay. If everything wasn't okay, Stiles would warn him, and more than that, Stiles wouldn't be here. So he merely smiled, grinned goofily even, and said, "She said yes."

Stiles grinned back. "What a shocker."

"Hey man, you never know."

Stiles smile, if it was possible, got even brighter. "I'm so fucking happy for you." Scott pulls him into a hug, and Stiles accepts the tight squeezing lifting him a few inches off the ground, the slight pats along his torso. He waits until Scott drops him before he cups Scott's head and shakes it slightly. "This is worth it, all of it, okay?"

"Stiles-"

"Shut up. You made some mistakes, some real stupid fucking mistakes, and I had a hand in them, but this? This right here is the new beginning. I mean, her parents are gonna hate you forever, especially when you take their precious daughter and leave Beacon Hills in the dead of night, but you two are going to grow old and happy together, and that's all I fucking want, okay?"

Scott nods. They stand there a few more minutes, Scott thinking about Allison, and Stiles deliberately not thinking about anything else, and then Stiles gets in his car and drives away. He got what he came for - Scott is happy, Scott is alive, and since his father died that has been Stiles only goal for the last three years.

(What you missed in this scene is the way Stiles doesn't take out the stolen key Scott slipped him. Do try to pay better attention.)

                                                                                  --------------------------

It's been ten days, during which preliminary reports are turned into finalized and shelved reports, and the only thing still tying Derek to the murders is the same thing that did in the first place: he was at the scene of the crime and he had plenty of motive.

Of course, everyone had plenty of motive. Stiles is starting to wonder if Kate Argent was always so morally grey and the FBI purposefully focused her on cases they couldn't win through legal means, and then forgot to keep paying attention when she started pinning her crimes on suspects they wanted out of the way. The FBI Investigator has come and gone, and in a private meeting between him, the Mayor and Stiles, it was made very clear this case needed to be put to rest _now_. They would let Derek walk away because the FBI was already having image problems with their latest race relations fuck up, and whatever damage they could do to Derek and the Wolf's Bane Club wasn't close to what the damage the truth of Kate Argent's arrest record could do to them. The Mayor's lips stayed thin, and it sounded as if she was choking when she agreed it was in everybody's best interest to move on.

Everybody gives statements to the press, but they end up on page nine of the newspaper because The Beta Club ends up in a shootout with the Lizard Torch Club, and the only surviving members are Boyd Lastless, ten bullets in his body and barely recovering, and Danny the Accountant. There are also two separate explosions, one of which is a small shed the Beta Club kept all their chemicals in. Stiles spends the next week running himself ragged, the Mayor spinning out damage control as best she can, the tourism trade taking the biggest dive yet seen in their town, and it's in that shallow space Scott and Allison disappear from the town of Beacon Hills forever, never to be seen by any of them again. 

                                                                                  --------------------------

"You look like shit," Lydia tells him.

Stiles gives her a sheepish smile. In front of him are case folders and notes on post its. His take out from lunch is still sitting on the corner of his desk, and he's pretty sure the bags under his eyes look even worse under his office's fluorescent lights than they did under his bathroom's.

"I don't think I've slept for a couple of days at this point."

Lydia starts poking around his notes. He lets her, just leans back and closes his eyes. She makes a hmmm noise and he opens her eyes to see she's unearthed Derek Hale's file. "I thought we were letting this one slide?"

"We are," he protests quickly. "I'm just, you know, doing a Santa, checking my list twice, finding out if he's naughty or nice and I really didn't mean for that to sound like a sex thing..." He sighs. "I know, I'm supposed to let this go. I just wanted to make sure there was really no evidence tying him to the murders."

Lydia looks at him, silent. Stiles could run circles around most of the people in his office and outside of it, but they both know Lydia has always been smarter. Finally she smiles, not the one she usually uses to keep people at a distance, but a real one, her I'm-a-fucking-genius smile.

"The only thing that could tie Derek Hale to the crime scene is if the lighter, lighter fluid container, and/or knife showed up, and I think the person was smart enough to get rid of those items. Maybe by dissolving them in some hydrofluoric acid, assuming nothing had, say, nickel or silver. Maybe burying them so deep in the woods nothing and nobody could find them. You can drop this case because you'll never get enough to arrest Derek Hale and keep him arrested." 

She stands up, slicks her hands down her skirt. "So go get some sleep."

He waits until she gets to the door before he blurts out, "I'm thinking of resigning."

She tosses a look over her shoulder. "You only took this job because of your father and Scott. Both of those reasons are no longer valid."

She leaves. Stiles looks down at the folder, Derek's mug shot staring back at him. He closes it, puts it to the side so he can file it before he goes home for the day.

                                                                                  --------------------------

(You still want to know about the first time, don't you? The way their eyes caught across the club. The way they smiled, that slow uncurling of a grin on Derek's face, that burst of joy on Stiles. The way their breaths mingled when they kissed. The thrust and pull of their bodies, the wall against their backs, the way they slammed lips and chests and dicks together. But what you need to know is about the third conversation. About the deal. About Scott leaving the club without being killed; about what Peter did to his niece. About revenge, and the barest hint of trust. It's been suggested in Agatha Christie novels that the best way to keep someone from turning on you is to tie them to you in the same way you need to be tied to them. Peter Hale needed to die for all of their sakes. 

And if they got there after Kate Argent could be saved, well, that was just a very nice bonus.)

                                                                                  --------------------------

There's nothing left to clean but the same petty crimes that always plague the town.

Stiles hesitates in front of the burned out husk of the Hale house. After Derek was arrested he was kicked out of his motel, and instead of trying to find a new place he apparently took to sleeping in what was left of his childhood's home. Stiles could never decide if that was creepy or sad or some strange, Derek-Hale-only combination of the two.

Derek steps out behind the door (closed, like there wasn't a chunk of wall missing three feet to the left of it), sitting down on the chair on the porch with a beer. He watches Stiles exit his car and walk up, and neither flinch their eyes away. Once again they would sit in silence all day if it was left to Derek Hale, so Stiles decides to be the better person and start.

"You're officially cleared of your uncle's murder. And Argent's. Apparently the only way we can get you is if the murder weapons turn up, and I'm pretty sure they'll be found the same time the last pieces of The Beta Club are found. So, you know, good for you."

Derek just gives him a look. "What are you doing here?"

"What, you think I didn't just come by to tell you how free as a bird you are? Shouldn't you just bask in the celebration of that for a while? Maybe take a few moments to appreciate it before you go recruiting for the Club and I have to go arrest you again?"

"I-" Derek frowns, looks down at the beer bottle in his hand. Like with the water at the police station, he rotates the bottle without drinking from it. "I think the Club should die with Peter."  

Stiles stills for a second. "That's...that's really good." Silence, for a minute. Then Stiles blurts out, "I'm thinking of retiring."

Derek looks back up.

"You know, take my saved fortune and go lie on a beach. Drink mojitos. Learn to surf. Maybe take up fishing."

Derek looks like he's trying to fight a smile. (It's a good look. Stiles thinks so, and you can too.) "Fishing?"

"What? I could totally fish."

Another pause. "Sounds...lonely, though."

"I didn't think you minded, being alone."

There is something in the air. It is fragile, tentative, and neither of them can handle it very well. Stiles rubs the back of his head, then pulls out a small evidence bag from his pocket and places it on the rickety side table next to Derek's chair. "I figured you would want this back. It has the Club's crest, and the case is closed. No reason it has to rot in an evidence locker room." He gives a little wave, walks back to his car. He hears Derek's very faint thanks, lifts his hand in acknowledgement but doesn't turn around, just settles into the driver's seat and gets back to the police station.

After a long time, Derek picks up the bag and takes out Laura's pendant. He watches it sparkle in the light. He wonders about the nature of forgiveness.

                                                                                  --------------------------

The next morning, Stiles places a carefully typed up letter of resignation on the mayor's desk. It feels like breathing.

                                                                                  --------------------------

The thing is, one man is a former Sheriff, and the other is an ex-con. There's only a few ways their story could work out.

It may be that they both leave, some time in between so no one makes the connection, disappearing like the wind for all anybody can find a trace of them, and one of them laying on a beach somewhere, like the ending to some bad action-adventure movie, and the other laying down on the sand next to him, because all those movies had bad romance subplots, and the second man playfully elbowing the first one, who instead of growling smiles a smile - to borrow a metaphor - that can light up the world, and really it's all so far down on the list of possibilities to be absolutely laughable. Far, far more likely the former Sheriff leaves a town where he played too loose with his morals and finds some other small town that actually fits the cliche of small town simplicity, no rival motorcycle gangs in sight, no childhood love fucking up his existence, and the former gang-member does something stupid and ends up in handcuffs, or at the wrong end of a bullet, or in a drug explosion, some kind of violent end at least. 

It really all depends on what you want to believe, doesn't it?


End file.
